


A Story For Another Day

by sal_si_puedes



Category: Supernatural, Wincest - Fandom
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Bloodplay, Coda, D/s, Dom!Sam, Episode 11x14 coda, Episode Related, Face Slapping, Gift Fic, Gunplay, Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest, Sub!Dean, but at least consensual, definitely not safe, probably not sane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 11:38:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6077946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sal_si_puedes/pseuds/sal_si_puedes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the events of ep 11x14 (The Vessel) Dean needs someone to take him out of his head. He needs to atone for his shortcomings. Sam, honoring the dynamics that have shaped his and Dean's relationship for many years now, rises to the occasion. Guns blazing, so to speak.</p>
<p>This is a pretty dark and twisted tale of atonement and forgiveness. It probably isn't sane. It's definitely not safe. But at least it's consensual - in a twisted, Wincest-y way...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Story For Another Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BaronSamedi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaronSamedi/gifts).



> Written as a birthday gift for the amazing [BaronSamedi](http://baronsamediswife.tumblr.com/). Myri, thank you so much for everything!! And a very happy birthday to you!! *smooooooooches*
> 
> A huge thank you goes to Sandy, aka [buttheyrebrothers](http://buttheyrebrothers.tumblr.com/)! Without your cheerleading and your encouragement I couldn't have done this. And what can I say? Your eagle eyes for guns? Saved all our butts!! Si, SI!!! ;D

When Dean tells him he doesn’t want to talk about it, about what happened on that sub, and how it is a story for another day, Sam knows. He knows that it’s not only about the vessel and the drowned sailors. He knows that it is about so much more than that. He also knows that Dean will never tell him. At least not with words or in any other conventional way.

Sam can tell then what is coming. He can sense it in the way Dean gets edgier with every passing day, he can see it in the growing look of disgust that creeps onto Dean’s face when he thinks Sam won’t notice and he knows it from how Dean calls him Sammy more often than usual.

In a way, Sam dreads this even more than he knows Dean does. Knowing what his brother wants, what he _needs_ , and having to give it to him are two entirely different things and Sam’s stomach drops every time the door to the motel room swings open.

He hopes against hope that Dean doesn’t break while they are still on the road. He prays that they will make it back to the bunker before it gets too overwhelming, too urgent for Dean to keep himself together any longer. He has nothing here with him, nothing he could use, and his mind keeps turning in circles, trying to come up with an impromptu plan in case Dean doesn’t last long enough.

The moment he opens the door to their room one afternoon and sees the handcuffs on the small, rickety table he knows that they are not going to make it back in time.

Dean has a way of being subtle but when he breaks he can be very blunt. 

The handcuffs are lying there in the empty, shabby room, staring back at Sam with an unrelenting, merciless gleam. Sam’s hand is still on the door knob and he swallows around a incredibly dry mouth. 

_Shit._

Dean is nowhere to be seen and the car is not parked in its spot either but Sam has a strong suspicion where Dean might be. He fishes his cell phone from his pocket and types a quick message.

_Come back now. No more drinks._

Dean knows, of course, that Sam would never touch him if he had had more than one drink. He has learned that one the hard way. So, technically, Sam doesn’t have to make sure but he wants to set the right tone from the beginning. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and feels a hint of panic rising inside of him. It travels up his spine and into the short hair at the back of his neck and wraps around his throat until he wills it down by taking a deep, slow breath. He will need all of his control for what is going to take place within these four narrow walls soon. He needs to focus and he needs to get ready.

It doesn’t take long to decide how to go about this now that time is threatening to run out. He makes sure that he is prepared and everything is in place for when the door swings open. That he is sitting in the chair facing the door with the right look is in his eyes.

Dean stops dead in his tracks when he sees him. His fingers still clutch around the door knob and he swallows around something in his throat. The look of pale torment and harried misery on his face makes Sam’s stomach drop, but all he does is nod. 

“Get in.”

Dean swallows again and takes a tentative step forward, letting the door fall shut behind him. His hands are balled into fists and Sam can see how a subtle tremble runs through Dean’s body once the door is closed.

“Give me your gun.”

Dean’s eyes dart to the items lying on the table in front of Sam, the handcuffs and Sam’s own gun, the Taurus. He hesitates.

“Your gun,” Sam repeats and Dean flinches.

As if in slow motion Dean reaches behind his back and pulls his colt from the waistband of his jeans. Taking step after cautious step towards where Sam is sitting, Dean briefly closes his eyes and swallows again. He hands Sam his gun, his hand slightly shaking. It’s still warm when Sam takes it from him.

“What do you think this is?” Sam says and nods towards the handcuffs. Dean’s eyes follow his and linger there, glued to the metal bracelets, while Sam’s return to Dean’s face. When Dean doesn’t answer but just keeps staring at the cuffs, Sam rises from his chair and Dean automatically takes a step backwards, looking up, all bright eyes and dark shadows.

“Do I look like a cop?” 

Dean’s eyes leave Sam’s and move to the side, then to the floor. His breathing hitches and Sam can see how he forces himself to take a deep slow breath. His shoulders sag and he bites his lips.

“Answer me,” Sam demands and picks up the cuffs, holding them out for Dean to see. “Do I look like a fucking cop?”

Dean shakes his head. “No,” he whispers, closing his eyes. “No, you don’t.”

“Good.” Sam nods and drops the cuffs onto the table’s scratched, worn-out surface. “Because I’m not.”

His gaze lingers on Dean’s clenched fists for a moment before he inhales slowly and speaks again. “Look at me.”

It takes Dean ages to raise his head and lift his gaze. It must be so heavy, Sam thinks and steels himself for what he has to do next.

“Good,” he says again when Dean is finally locking eyes with him. “I am not a cop. I’m not even a fed,” he adds and leans forward a little. “And when I’m going deal with you there won’t be any laws or rules or anything like that to keep me from treating you exactly the way you deserve.”

Sam scowls when Dean moves backwards. Dean’s body probably moved on its own accord but Sam knows he has to put a stop to this right now.

“No,” he barks and fists his hand into the fabric of Dean’s shirt right over his breast bone. “You stay right here.”

Dean almost trips and Sam has to tighten his grip to steady him, to keep him from falling. Twisting his fist a little, Sam pulls Dean closer.

“I’m your brother, Dean, and there are no laws I have to abide by now, no rules. Tell me you understand.”

“I do,” Dean whispers and his eyes flicker. “I—I do.”

“Say it.”

“You’re—“ Dean coughs but then he straightens his back and looks Sam square in the eyes. “You’re my brother.”

They’re too close to each other for Sam to be able to read anything in Dean’s eyes but he has heard enough for now.

“Good. Here’s what you’re gonna do.”

Dean swallows again and Sam can feel his trembling breath against his face. It smells of whiskey but Sam knows that Dean has had only one drink. 

“You’re gonna take your fucking clothes of and you get yourself ready. Now,” he adds when Dean doesn’t move and shoves him backwards at the same time he lets go of Dean’s shirt.

Dean stumbles but catches himself just in time, staring at Sam with wide, sallow eyes and his lips slightly parted. 

“Now.”

Dean nods and turns around to disappear into the bathroom. When he comes back, Sam has disassembled both their guns, the parts neatly laid out in front of him. 

Sam knows without looking that Dean’s eyes claw around those metal pieces the moment he re-emerges from the bathroom. He slowly starts to pick up the pieces of the Taurus and begins to put them together again. He knows that Dean’s eyes are fixed on his hands and he puts them on display as blatantly as he can. Years ago, in better and much brighter times, Dean once confessed to him how much he loves his hands. His big, strong, capable hands, handling the delicate mechanics of a gun. How much he admires Sam’s skill. 

Sam could do this blind but he wants to see exactly what Dean sees so he doesn’t look at him but watches himself assemble his gun instead. When he’s finished, he pulls the slide backwards once and shoves the magazine in, pushing it upwards forcefully with the heel of his hand. He pulls the slide back a little further and lets it snap in place. Then, he places the loaded gun onto the table in front of him and looks up.

Dean is standing a few steps away, his eyes unblinking and his lips dark red. They stand out against the pallor of his face like blood against freshly fallen snow. He’s achingly hard, as one quick downward glance shows Sam, his dick as red as his lips. They pulse with the same rhythm and Dean’s chest is surreptitiously heaving.

Sam’s eyes point downwards, to the floor, and the immediateness with which Dean’s body follows his silent command causes Sam’s heart to crack a little. Dean is so much more graceful in his movements than he’d ever give himself credit for and for a moment there Sam is afraid that Dean has waited too long. That he has allowed Dean too much time to ask for this. That it is too late already.

Once Dean is on his knees and his wrists are crossed behind the small of his back, Sam turns his attention back to the table and the pieces of Dean’s colt lying in front of him. With steady, meticulous movements he forms a gun from those many delicate parts and when he’s done and the gun is loaded and secured, he turns it over in his hands.

“Beautiful,” he muses, never taking his eyes off of the weapon. “Such a beautiful thing.”

He can hear Dean’s sharp intake of breath and he picks up his own gun with his right. He carefully weighs both weapons in his hands, turning his eyes from one gun to the other and back again.

“Now,” he says after a while, pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes. “Which one should I use?”

Dean opens his mouth but when Sam shoots him a stern look he bites his lips and casts down his eyes.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” Sam says and puts down his Taurus. “You don’t get a say in this, Dean.” He takes Dean’s gun in his right hand and straightens his back. “Eyes front,” he commands and pushes his chair back, rising to his feet. “Don’t move.”

Sam knows how much Dean hates inspections so he draws it out extra long. He lets his eyes wander over Dean’s skin, takes in all of his scars and bruises and touches every part of Dean’s body with his gaze, first the front and then the back. When he reaches the bottom of Dean’s spine and the small of his back he kicks Dean’s hands away with the tip of his boot so he can have a better look. His brows furrow and he narrows his eyes once more.

“You didn’t prep,” he says and Dean visibly flinches. “I told you to get yourself ready.”

Sam leans forward and wraps his left hand around the back of Dean’s neck, pushing him forward. Dean’s ass is clean and dry.

“You didn’t prep.”

When Dean doesn’t say anything it takes Sam a few moments to realize that he didn’t really ask him a question, so he adds another word.

“Why?”

“I—“ Dean croaks, still bent over forward with Sam’s hand around his neck. “Hurt—“

“Dean,” Sam admonishes. He shakes his head and tsks. He lets go of Dean’s neck, walks around him and places the muzzle of the colt underneath his chin. “Look at me.”

He follows Dean’s movement with his hand, keeping the muzzle right there, and when Dean’s eyes lock with his he tilts his head. 

“Why didn’t you prep?”

“I—“ Dean clears his throat and swallows thickly. His dick is straining against his lower belly and from the corners of his eyes Sam can see how it twitches with twisted arousal. “I need—It needs to hurt.”

“I know,” Sam says a little more gently and he knows exactly what that does to Dean. He knows what that gentle note in his voice reminds Dean of, he knows that Dean sees white linen now in his mind and a single petal as red as blood, another drunken confession made years ago, in a still much lighter time. 

“And I will see to that,” he promises and he can feel Dean’s quiet moan vibrating through the metal of the gun even more than he can actually hear it. “But I need you lubed up for this.”

“No,” Dean pleads and he blushes under Sam’s almost angelic gaze. “Sammy, please, I—“

The back of Sam’s hand hits Dean’s cheek hard and Dean’s lower lip splits open with the force of the impact.

Dean’s eyes are still widened in surprise when he looks at Sam again and Sam points the muzzle against Dean’s jugular for a moment, pushing it against his skin until Dean gasps.

“Don’t move,” he hisses and quickly makes for the chair on the other side of the table. He rummages through the duffle bag for a short while until he has found what he is looking for. Dean is going to hate this.

“Here,” he says and tosses a bottle of gun oil at Dean, who only catches it just in time before it lands on the floor. His reactions have already slowed, Sam registers. “Use this. Uh-uh,” he stops Dean when he tries to struggle to his feet. “Here. Do it here.”

Sam sits down in his chair, never letting go of Dean’s gun, and watches how Dean opens the bottle and starts to prepare himself. He watches as Dean reaches behind his back with greased-up fingers and he drinks in the subtle reactions of Dean’s body to his own ministrations.

To his surprise he feels how his cock begins to get hard inside of the confines of his trousers. 

Dean’s body stretches and turns and after a while Dean pours more oil onto his fingers and brings them back to his entrance, his face and chest blushed a deep shade of red and his face contorted with barely veiled pain and intense concentration.

“I’m done,” he finally whispers a couple of minutes later, the fingers of his left hand still wrapped around the bottle and his right dangling by his side, his fingers slicked up and dirty. He looks exhausted.

“Good,” Sam says, nodding, and gets up from his chair once more. He walks over to where Dean is kneeling, his legs slightly spread, and stares down at him. He takes a deep breath and backhands Dean again, so hard that Dean’s head is thrown to the side and he nearly topples over. “Next time do it right away when I tell you. Got it?”

“Yes,” Dean presses through his teeth, blinking rapidly.

“Yes, what?” Sam has let it slide once already, but twice simply won’t do.

“Y—“ Dean lets his eyes flutter shut briefly and bites his lips. “Just—just yes.”

The next hit _does_ cause Dean to fall over and onto his side and when he gets up on his knees again, a thin trickle of blood begins to run down his chin. 

“Suit yourself,” Sam shakes his head and grips the gun with his right, stepping up to Dean again. He runs the muzzle and the flat side of the barrel along the lines and plains of Dean’s face, over his jaw line and across his cheeks, over his cheek bones and along his brows. He pauses, the muzzle’s tip touched to Dean’s temple, and Dean shivers.

“You think you deserve this,” Sam murmurs, his grip around the handle adjusting. “You think you deserve to be treated like this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Dean whispers, nodding his head carefully. “Yes, S—Sammy.”

“You think,” Sam says, pressing the gun against Dean’s pale, sweaty skin a little harder, “you think you deserve to be treated exactly like this, like the worthless, useless piece of shit that you are, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Dean huffs and that huff turns into something akin to a moan at the end. “Sammy.”

“Worthless?” Sam asks, trailing the muzzle away from Dean’s temple again, running it over his cheek towards his mouth. “Or useless?”

Dean gasps when the metal brushes over his lips and Sam can feel how a faint, bitter smile creeps onto his own lips. 

“Both,” Dean breathes and the gun brushes over his lips again. “Fuck, Sammy. _Both._ ”

“Ah-uh,” Sam shakes his head and withdraws the gun to lean forward and cup Dean’s jaw with his free hand. “You can’t have both and you know it. Pick one.”

Dean’s eyes flutter shut once more but he opens them again after only a short moment. When they meet with Sam’s the struggle Sam witnesses in them nearly makes him end this whole thing right there and then. Maybe it is better to lose Dean to the darkness raging inside of him than to another moment of this.

“I—I don’t _know_. Fuck, I don’t—both. It’s— _both_.”

Sam slaps Dean another time, hard, and this time Dean lies on the floor for a couple of seconds, breathing raggedly, before he scrambles to his knees again.

“Now,” Sam says in his white linen, red velvet voice, the one he knows tears Dean apart at the seams, “let’s try this again. Pick one.”

“I—“ Dean is breathing against something inside of him, his nostrils flaring with the short puffs of air he exhales. “I don’t kn— _fuck_ ,” he flinches when Sam raises his hand again. “Useless,” he presses forward, squeezing his eyes shut tightly, bracing himself against a blow that never comes. “ _Useless._ Useless…” He licks his lips and his tongue swipes up blood. “I—“

“You are so wrong,” Sam murmurs gently and brings the gun to Dean’s mouth again. “So wrong…” After a couple of strokes with the muzzle along the lines of Dean’s closed, quivering lips, he pushes the tip against them and hums. He wiggles the gun a little and Dean opens his eyes.

“Open up,” Sam says calmly and the next moments Dean’s lips part and Sam pushes the gun inside slowly, at first only the tip but then a little further. He doesn’t want to make Dean gag but he wants him to feel this.

“Close your mouth,” he instructs and he can feel Dean dry-swallow around the shaft before his lips close around it. 

Sam knows what Dean feels and tastes right now. He has tried everything on himself, has started trying things many years ago when this whole thing between him and Dean had started, a couple of weeks after Dean had returned from Hell. He has tried everything on himself or he has paid someone to do it to him when it was something he hadn’t been able to do himself. He has tried this, too, so he knows what Dean feels. His gun hadn’t been loaded when he had done that, though. He’d never have trusted himself with a loaded gun around himself back then.

Dean’s jaw begins to tense and his lips begin to tremble so Sam starts to move the gun a little, back and forth and in and out. Saliva seeps from Dean’s mouth and he moans low in his throat when Sam moves the gun again, pushing it in a little further this time.

“You have _no idea_ how _wrong_ you are,” Sam mutters and withdraws the gun. “Look at me.”

Dean slowly opens his eyes and blinks against the brightness of the motel room and against the sight of Sam’s face. His gaze is unfocussed and his eyes are swimming. Just a little more, that’s all it’s going to take now, Sam thinks and he knows that with the same certainty with which he knows the exact moment he has to turn around and stab a demon in the chest.

“This,” Sam says softly and traces the tip of the gun over Dean’s cheek once more, leaving a thin trail of saliva in its wake. “This is the most beautiful gun I’ve ever seen. Ever,” he says. “It has saved so many lives, even more than it has taken.” Dean’s breathing quickens and his hands clench into fists again. Sam knows that Dean has to fight hard not to touch himself, but this is one of their unspoken, golden rules, no touching without permission, and Dean has yet to break that one. “It has saved my life so many times. You wouldn’t say that it is worthless, now, would you?”

Dean hesitates for a moment and then he shakes his head. 

“No,” Sam says and continues to caress Dean’s face with the tip of his gun. “And you certainly wouldn’t say it’s useless either, would you?”

When Dean shakes his head again, slowly, as if in a trance, Sam stops his caresses. “Would you? Answer me, Dean.”

“No,” Dean whispers and lowers his gaze. “No, Sammy.”

“You love this gun,” Sam states and Dean merely nods. “Bend over.”

Dean does as he is told. He plants his palms flat on the floor and spreads his legs a little again.

Sam steps around Dean and kneels down at his side. He runs first his palm and then the tip of the gun down Dean’s spine, rising goosebumps on the skin of Dean’s back. He cups Dean’s ass cheeks and when he pushes one finger between them and into his crack Dean’s head drops between his shoulders and a shiver runs through his whole body. His muscles clench and Sam nods.

The gun follows his finger, its tip trailing down Dean’s tail bone and disappearing between his cheeks. The finger Sam withdraws is slick with oil.

“Breathe,” Sam says as he presses the muzzle against Dean’s entrance. “Relax.”

It takes Dean a moment or two to comply but then Sam can feel how Dean’s muscles loosen and he hears how Dean releases a long, shuddering breath. This is when Sam pushes forward and the tip of the gun breaches Dean’s body. The quiet moan that falls from Dean’s lips is so sharp it cuts Sam’s chest wide open and lays all the blood inside of him bare.

“God, Dean,” Sam moans and pushes the gun in further. “This is—you are so beautiful.” 

Dean hisses in pain, or so Sam thinks, and Sam stops. “So fucking beautiful—“

Sam can feel how his own dick hardens a little more and how his heart skips a beat. And then Dean pushes back, pushes back against the gun, against Sam’s hand holding the gun, taking the hard, unrelenting metal tube further inside.

“Stop,” Sam instructs and he’s surprised at how out of breath he sounds. “Wait.” He climbs between Dean’s legs and pushes them apart a little more so he can settle between them, the gun still shoved up Dean’s ass. “Hold still.”

Slowly and carefully, Sam begins to fuck Dean with his gun, and he can’t take his eyes away from the shiny metal disappearing inside of Dean’s tight body again and again. 

After a while, Dean begins to push back, to match Sam’s rhythm with his own and Sam is too mesmerized to tell him to stop and keep still again. He lets Dean fuck himself on that gun and with every thrust of Dean’s hips, his own dick hardens further until he’s dizzy with arousal.

He shakes his head quickly and takes a deep breath.

“You—,“ he murmurs and the hoarseness of his voice is no match against Dean’s breathless pants. He clears his throat and tries again. “You’re like your gun, Dean,” he says and this time Dean actually moans. “You’re useful. You’re so clever, Dean, so clever. So smart. You’re brave and useful and clever and worthy and—“ Sam knows he’s babbling but he also knows that Dean is getting close and he wants to make this right for Dean. “Like your gun, only—only you’re so much more beautiful—“ He gasps when Dean flexes his back and he reaches around Dean’s torso.

“Up.”

He helps Dean to kneel up again and keeps fucking him with the gun while Dean leans back against Sam’s body, his head lolling onto Sam’s shoulder and his mouth opened in a silent scream.

“So beautiful,” Sam whispers into Dean’s ear and brushes his lips against Dean’s sticky, salty skin. “So fucking beautiful—“

Dean’s breath is coming in short, ragged moans now and his whole body is shaking with pent-up need. 

“You’re my beautiful, clever, useful, worthy, fucking brilliant big _brother_ ,” Sam praises and he knows that it will take only very little to push Dean over the edge and give him a moment of release. “You know that, don’t you?”

Dean only moans in response and Sam hums low in his throat, sending the vibrations of his voice all through Dean’s quivering body.

“Tell me,” Sam coaxes and stills both his hand and Dean’s movements, steadying Dean with a firm hold around his torso. “Tell me—Tell me you _know_ —“

“I—“ Dean moans and strains against Sam’s tight embrace. His jaw is clenched and Sam can feel him struggling against the stillness deep inside. “I—know.”

When Sam resumes his movements again, when he lets Dean move, he’s this close to coming in his pants himself. For a moment awareness flares up inside of his mind and he bites his lips. He’s fucking his brother’s ass with his brother’s gun and it’s going to make both of them come soon.

“Oh god,” he moans and bites down on Dean’s shoulder, hard. “Oh god, _Dean_ —“

“Sammy,” Dean echoes, and his whole body goes tense. “My—“

Sam lets go of Dean’s chest and wraps his hand around Dean’s leaking cock. Dean is so hard, Sam thinks he’s never seen or felt him this hard, and when his fingers close around Dean’s erection, when Dean’s blood pulses against Sam’s palm, Sam can feel Dean fly. 

“Come for me,” he moans and even though Dean’s body immediately complies, Sam can’t help but say it again and again. “Come for me, Dean, come for me…”

Dean empties himself in a climax so violent it shakes his body, so intense it almost rips it apart. He spurts over Sam’s fingers and against his stomach while his dick twitches in Sam’s grip and Sam bites his lips so hard he tastes blood. 

When Dean’s climax slowly ebbs, Sam lets go of his brother’s cock and pushes him forward until he’s on his hands and knees again. He withdraws the gun from Dean’s still clenching body and tosses it aside, quickly undoes his belt and unbuttons his jeans, freeing his cock with trembling hands. It takes just a couple of strokes to bring him to the edge and the moment he pushes into Dean he starts to come. His release takes his breath away, it literally takes his breath away no matter how much he tries to hold on to it, and he can’t keep his hips from stuttering with those shallow thrusts into Dean’s tight heat. He feels dizzy and light-headed and he can feel Dean shake underneath him so he clenches his fist around the remains of his consciousness and pulls himself back into the here and now. He wraps his arm around Dean’s upper body again, holding him upright when Dean’s arms threaten to give in. 

It takes him another few shuddering breaths to regroup and for his surroundings to shift into focus again. He slips from Dean’s body, his jeans crumpled around his thighs, and he falls backwards, pulling Dean with him, pulling him on top of him.

With trembling, sticky fingers he reaches for the hem of the duvet and pulls it off of the bed, paying no attention to whatever has been lying on top of it and falls to the floor in the process. He covers Dean with the blanket and maneuvers him onto his side so he can take him in his arm and look at his face.

“Better?” Sam murmurs, brushing his lips over Dean’s, the taste of drying blood heavy on his tongue.

Dean grunts noncommittally, burrowing his face against Sam’s shoulder, fisting his fingers into Sam’s shirt and into the fabric of the duvet.

Sam knows that Dean doesn’t like to talk about it, afterwards, but he needs to know.

“You okay?”

He needs to know that he hasn’t fucked them up for good this time.

“Dean?”

“Hmm-hmm,” Dean nods and tightens the grip of his hands. He’s still trembling although he’s slowly coming down and Sam will need to check him for injuries soon, but he can’t for the life of him let go of Dean right now.

He reaches up to run his thumb over Dean’s split, bruised lip.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes and strokes Dean’s lip again. 

“’s good,” Dean slurs and Sam is surprised that Dean can speak at all. “Smy.”

“’m going to patch you up soon,” Sam whispers into Dean’s hair, his sweaty, sticky hair. “Gonna take care of you—“

“Shhhhh,” Dean shushes him and Sam can feel how he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “’s t’ loud—“

Dean’s heart is still beating wildly in his chest and Sam feels the blood rushing through the vein in Dean’s temple against his lips. He needs to get some water into Dean and some disinfectant and salve onto his broken skin as soon as possible but what he needs even more is to listen to his brother’s heartbeat for a while, to let Dean’s pulse soothe his own gaping wounds. 

“Okay,” Sam mouths, rubbing soothing circles against Dean’s back, and pulls the duvet up a little higher.

“Okay…“

 

~fin~


End file.
